


all the waves we're breaking

by stutter



Series: civilians [2]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mundane Lives, Drag Race isn't really a thing, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter
Summary: Trixie lays the bills out in neat piles by denomination. “Hang on.” He counts them again, just to be sure. “Oh mygod.” A breathless laugh knocks out of him. “I’m taking you out,” he decides aloud.“Oh, please. I’m not gonna be that easy to kill,” Brian scoffs. “I’mtenacious,bitch.”(Trixie sends a very late-night text. Brian's up.)





	all the waves we're breaking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanierose/gifts).



> So when I finished _burn all your civilian clothes_ , I said I'd try to take some fic requests in-universe. I'm so sorry I work so slowly! This one is for @beanierose, who asked:  
>  _i want THIS i want that achingly awkward and exciting and sweet 'i think i'm falling for you' in those first weeks i want them falling asleep on the phone_
> 
> And I TRIED! it got...away from me a little. hope it's okay.
> 
> So here is a deleted/expanded scene from probably right at the top of chapter 3, but I don't think you really need to have read that whole fic to get what's going on here. (Trixie's a drag queen. Brian's a yoga instructor. Nobody's a TV star.) 
> 
> Minor warning: One character is a little drunk, the other is not. If that feels bad to you, proceed with caution. Otherwise, ok, enjoy!

It’s like fifteen steps from the Uber to the front of her building, but Trixie still has to fight herself not to slip out of her heels and trudge up the drive in her stocking feet. But she’s a lady, and it is a known fact that a lady do keep her fucking shoes on outside. 

Outside the thrum and strobe of the bar, it’s quiet enough for Trixie to hear her body, and bitch, it’s _screaming_. Everything hurts. Her back pulses like a bassline. Dawn’s just a couple hours away. She’s a cool sixty percent sober, but her makeup still looks fierce and her bag is stuffed with tips. 

All she can think, surreally, is that she wants to take fistful after fistful of singles and fives and make it rain all over Brian, who probably doesn’t even, like, believe in money and wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, the philistine. 

The key goes into the lock with only a little fight, and then she’s through the front door, shoeless, wig snatched off. She ambles back to the drag room and drops the hair on its stand, which stares blankly back at her, abruptly human. 

As she looks warily at it, her reflection in the vanity’s mirror startles her in the half-light; bald and flat-footed, she looks like some kind of gay-ass cryptid, spotted in a haunted clearing or on the cover of the _Weekly World News._ The thought gets a real laugh out of her, and she fumbles in her bag for her phone, snapping a dead-eyed selfie. She opens up a new text to Brian, drops in the photo. 

_Girl!_ Her brain slams on the brakes before she can hit send. 

Everything feels so natural and simple with them that it’s easy to forget - this is still _new._ It’s been, like, a month? Brian’s never seen her in face. If there’s a worse fucking introduction to her particular feminine wiles, she surely can’t think of one at the moment. 

Maybe sixty percent sober is generous. 

She deletes the photo immediately, but doesn’t close the window. She thumbs out, _im sure youre asleep but I just got scared of my own refleckton adn needed to tell someone._

She rereads it after sending, only catching the typo on the second pass. She sticks her tongue out at the phone and shuffles into the bathroom, ready to put herself away for the night.

He’s half-transformed, bare-chested and down to his pads, when the phone vibrates. He flails for it and knocks it to the ground, where it hits the tile with a terrifying clatter. “Oh my _fucking_ god,” he hisses, but when he lifts it back up it’s miraculously uncracked. The world isn’t always a cruel place! Even better, it’s a text from Brian. 

_cmon candyman!  
been watching too many scary movies, tracy?_

Trixie’s lips curl up. _no just wearing too much makeup. go to bed!_

The phone buzzes to life in his hand with an incoming call. He pops in an earbud and accepts. “Why aren’t you asleep?” he demands. Pleasantries are a waste of time at this hour.

Brian croaks, “I never sleep, Deborah. The light of the moon draws me out onto the street to do _foul mischief._ ” In his real, warm voice, he adds, “Also, I’m a part-time insomniac.”

“Is that the one where your blood doesn’t clot right?” Trixie asks, just to make Brian wheeze with laughter. It works.

“No, you dumb bitch,” he gasps. “It’s the one where you fuck dead people.”

Trixie shrieks before he can stop himself, then flings a hand over his mouth. In the other room, he hears Bob shift and grumble. He curses quietly. Brian’s still howling on the other line, but he gets a hold of himself enough to ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m - I’m gonna wake my, uh, Bob,” Trixie whispers. He’s got church giggles something fierce; the harder he tries to stop laughing, the funnier everything seems. “And I’m still _drunk,_ I think.”

Brian guffaws. “Sorry, your _Bob?_ ” Trixie nearly gives in to another wave of hysterics, has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to quell it.

“My fucking _roommate,_ Mary. Her name is Bob.” Trixie wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand; it comes away sooty and sparkling. “Oh, my god, I’m such a mess.”

Brian takes a deep breath, gets the last of his laughter out on a _woo!_. “Not Bob the Drag Queen?” he asks. 

Trixie sits up straighter. “Bitch, yes! How do you know Bob?”

“I told you, I like drag. I’ve seen her around. She’s everything.” Brian sighs again, almost a yawn in it. Trixie smiles as he goes for the Pond’s to start melting his face off. 

“You sound sleepy,” he points out. “Your voice is all raspy.”

“I’m not sleepy. I just had cigarettes for dinner,” Brian tells him. Trixie scoffs. “And _you_ sound like a damn disaster. Did you have a gig tonight?”

“Mhmm.” He closes his eyes as he slicks up his face, tries to place Brian in his apartment, picturing every detail of the art on his walls, the clutter on his dresser and bedside table. He can hear a soft rustling, movement in a quiet room. “What are you doing right now?” Trixie asks the dark. “Where are you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Brian says. Trixie can hear him smiling. It makes his nose wrinkle up as he works the glue out of his brows. “Where do you think I am?”

“Up your own ass,” Trixie snorts. “Are you in bed?”

“Maybe. Can’t a girl retain a little mystery?” Brian asks lightly. 

“Sure she can,” Trixie says. He wipes the cold cream away in one satisfying motion, leaving his face mostly clean, cool and soft. A smudgy scrim of glitter lingers around his cheekbones. Fucking glitter. “So what’s your excuse?”

Brian’s laugh, the near-silent one, jackhammers out. It feels so good against Trixie’s ear that he can’t help grinning. “Tell me about your gig, mean-spirited wench.”

Trixie makes a noncommittal noise, wriggling out of the last of his pads and hosiery until he’s down to his underwear, as boy as he ever can be. A cool shower sounds orgasmic right now, but hanging up on Brian is unthinkable. “It was fine. Good.” He grabs his evening bag full of cash and pads back to his bedroom, trying to move lightly and keep quiet. “It was at Collective. There was this big fucking group of like seven bachelorettes -“

“Oh, Jesus _Christ,_ ” Brian interjects. Trixie pictures his blue eyes rolling back to whites in his skull. 

“Oh, so you’ve met them?” he asks drily. He upends the bag on his bed and starts facing the bills. 

Brian makes a falsetto sound. Trixie hears a shuffling, imagines he’s just spread himself out across his sheets like a big cat. “I’ve been inside one or two clubs on the eve of someone’s big day, yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, so, right.” Trixie loses count halfway through the fives and has to start again. “Like, let me do my job, you know, like, I don’t come to your hedge fund and slap the - the communications degree out of your twat.” Brian screams, and Trixie shushes him instinctively, even though it’s not like Bob can hear him through the phone. “Shut up! You’re going to get me going again,” he says, pursing his lips against another big, stupid grin.

“But it’s so much _fun_ to get you going,” Brian purrs, pleased. Trixie feels a wave of heat ebb out from his belly.

“Anyway,” he says. His voice cracks a little on the last syllable, but if Brian clocks it he’s not a dick about it. “They were fine, it was fine. They tipped. Holy fuck, they tipped a lot, actually.”

“Get that coin, mama,” Brian says. 

Trixie lays the bills out in neat piles by denomination. “Hang on.” He counts them again, just to be sure. “Oh my _god._ ” A breathless laugh knocks out of him. “I’m taking you out,” he decides aloud. 

“Oh, please. I’m not gonna be that easy to kill,” Brian scoffs. “I’m _tenacious,_ bitch.”

“No!” Trixie laughs. His heart flutters up to the back of his throat. “I’m taking you out. For dinner. I just counted my tips, and I cleaned the fucking house tonight. Let’s go somewhere nice.”

Brian cackles. “Oh my _gawd,_ what are we, straight people?” His voice is smile-cracked, though, all treble. “But, sure, why not? I might even put out if you play your cards right, mister.”

“I bet you look so good in a suit,” Trixie muses, before he can stop himself. He scrambles, mortified - “I mean, assuming you own anything that isn’t, like, yoga pants or a monochrome t-shirt -”

“Yeah, maybe I can borrow one of your evening gowns, you bitch,” Brian hoots. “You dog-person.”

Trixie hides his eyes behind a hand. “I get so stupid this late at night. Stupid _er,_ I mean.”

“I was gonna say…” Brian is still laughing, though. “But, for real, if you need to sleep, you should go ahead.”

Trixie should. He just doesn’t want to. He shakes his head. “Mm-mm.” Brian moves around again, and Trixie hears the sound of a good, full-body stretch, complete with joints cracking and popping and a long sigh. He empathy-aches; there’s a rope of tension holding him together, shoulders to spine to tailbone. 

“That sounds so nice,” he moans. “My whole body hurts. Could you come over and just stomp on my back until everything goes black?”

Brian snorts. “Absolutely fucking not. But, you know what? I can help, maybe. Where does it hurt?” His voice has suddenly flipped over into earnest yogi mode, namaste realness. Trixie feels his face get warm for absolutely no fucking reason. 

“It’s fine, I’m just being a bitch,” he says. 

“No, seriously,” Brian urges, “I know a little about this stuff. Lemme lay hands, in a manner of speaking. I only charge $2.99 a minute.” Trixie laughs through his teeth. Brian, encouraged, goes, “Yeah, go run and get your daddy’s credit card and we can get this thing going.”

“You think I’d be wearing women’s clothes for money if I had a dad? With a _line of credit?_ ” Trixie says flatly. Brian giggles, but doesn’t say anything. Trixie rolls his eyes and pushes himself back against the headboard, setting his phone down beside him. He’s a little turned on, in a vague, non-urgent way, under his skin but not racing in his blood. He concedes, “I mean, my lower back, I guess. Hurts the most. The stuff I wear gets heavy.”

“The _stuff you wear_ \- you mean giant fake titties and a fucking corset, I assume? Oh, I’m sure, Mary, I know your type.” Brian hums, focused. “Okay, this is - _ugh._ ” He makes a frustrated little harrumph. “This would be so much easier if I were there, but I’m not taking an Uber at this hour, sorry -“

“Bold of you to assume I have any interest in seeing you,” Trixie lies.

“Tracy, shut _up,_ ” Brian laughs. “Here, take - okay, reach around with both fists -“

“Seriously, buy me a drink first,” Trixie drawls, and Brian shrieks in his ear loudly enough that he shrills back, “Oh my God! Okay! I’m doing it! I’m doing it.”

He reaches back, curling his hands on either side of his spine. Brian shuffles - Trixie imagines him mirroring the touch on himself, trying to match words to physical space, put them where they don’t belong. He closes his eyes to see it better. Brian says, “You wanna find, like, above the hipbone an inch or two, right in the middle of your back around your natural waist, and press.”

“Oh, honey,” Trixie mumbles as he searches for the right spot, “there’s _nothing_ natural about this waist, honey.” 

“You are the worst person I’ve ever liked,” Brian says, and then adds brightly, “Well, that’s actually not true at _all._ Are you pressing?”

“It’s not working.” And then, right on cue, his knuckles find something, and it’s as if someone’s dropped a heavy black cloth over the pain, turned the brightness down on it. A moan slips out of his mouth, unbidden. _“Oh.”_

“ _There_ she is.” Brian’s approving tone melts down over him like hot water. “Acupressure, bitch. UB-23. Body magic.”

“Fuck _me,_ ” Trixie groans stupidly. 

“Keep pressing, give it a little knead,” Brian urges. “Like a minute and a half like that.” 

“Uh-huh.” His shoulders release. The toes of his right foot twitch. “Thank you. Jesus.”

“You’re so welcome.” There’s a long pause. Trixie presses, rubs. Brian says, “Feels better when someone else does it, you know.”

You can do _anything you want_ to me, Trixie thinks. 

Brian hacks out a low, surprised laugh on the other side, and Trixie realizes with a jolt that the words didn’t stay inside his head. 

“Mama, you know what I wanna do to you.” 

Trixie’s mouth goes dry. His hands uncurl, but his spine’s tingling all on its own now. “Yeah, I do,” he says. It comes out hushed, serious. A little honey in it, slower and sweeter than he usually sounds. “I know.”

Brian says, in his light, easy voice, “I’m thinking at this juncture I might jack off. If that doesn’t, um, offend your sensibilities.” 

Trixie is, all at once, dizzy. And _hard._ He nods, and then remembers that the phone is an auditory medium. “No, yeah, you should,” he manages. “If that’s how you’re feeling.”

“It is, I am. Helps you sleep, y’know.” Brian’s tone stays calm, but Trixie doesn’t miss the little catch of breath between sentences. Heat crawls up the back of his neck. His fingers buzz. “Is that at all how you’re feeling?” Brian asks, very quietly. 

Trixie is boiling alive. “Maybe.” He half-traces a hand over the waistband of his briefs. Not quite letting himself. Better to wait. Something about Brian, about his big, sincere eyes, makes him a little tentative, sometimes. Rugs get pulled out. Other shoes drop. When he looks at Brian, touches him, he always feels a little like he might be being pranked. 

Brian, oblivious, is chuckling. “Ooh, she’s a _coy_ bitch,” he marvels. “She’s a lady of _discretion._ ”

“Well, it’s just, I’ve never tried it before.” He palms himself through his underwear, breathing deep. 

Brian wheezes again. “Oh, me either,” he agrees. “You know, I get an urge, and I just start praying until it passes.” Trixie bites down on a grin.

“And then God’s like, ‘Uhh, no thanks, I don’t want this, you can keep it.’” 

Brian lets out an affronted squeak. “My supplication is irresistible, you cunt,” he says. “Which I believe you know firsthand.”

Trixie’s dick twitches against his knuckles. _Supplication._ “It’s - passable,” he says in a croak. “Hey, like - tell me, tell me what you’re doing.” He doesn’t do this. He never does this. With other guys, he usually just sends an ass pic or two and calls it a night. This isn’t that. It feels as intimate, as fragile, as a first kiss, as a staring contest. His head spins. 

Brian’s breath whispers against the phone. Hard to say if he’s laughing, or. Trixie wills himself to imagine a trace of mint, of cigarette smoke, against the shell of his ear. It makes him shiver. “The usual,” Brian rasps. “Same as most nights. Pullin’ the padge, thinking about fucking your ass.”

Trixie almost chokes on his tongue. He shoves a hand into his underwear, strokes, any thought of shyness fully flown out the goddamn window. “Fuck, I wish you were,” he blurts out.

“Shut up,” Brian says. Trixie hears the grit of his teeth. It spurs him on, and he can barely get his voice above a whisper, this is so not his style, but he hisses into Brian’s ear - 

“I do, I really do, I wish I were over there with you, I wish you were fucking me into your mattress.”

“Trixie, fuck.” His words are tight, tense. Trixie strokes a little faster. “I really wanna give you - some _passable supplication_ right about now.” 

Trixie’s throat catches, shock and pleasure, but he doesn’t stop. “You are such a piece of shit,” he murmurs, “it’s honestly insane how much I still wanna do this.” His pulse is racing. Brian lets out a sound halfway between a smothered laugh and a moan. 

“How much?” he asks. There’s strain on the words. Trixie knows the feeling. 

“Too much.” He winces, tries to slow himself down. “More than I should. It’s - I think about it a lot.”

“Think about what. Tell me.” A little pulse of lightning travels down his body; he makes a sharp sound through his teeth. His jaw sets. 

“Your mouth,” he whispers. “Your tattoos. Fucking - yes, your cock, inside me, is that what you want to hear me say?”

Brian’s breath chokes off, then hits Trixie’s ear in a long shudder. Trixie’s mouth falls open. He knows that sound. “You, oh, fuck, Tracy,” Brian is panting, “you are so fucking sexy, you have no idea.”

Trixie is so close, hearing him, he could come from a carefully-blown breath, from a particularly lurid wink, from hearing his name said the right way. “Maybe you’re just really easy,” he suggests.

Brian’s breath is leveling out, getting slower. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, kind of playful and kind of dead serious. “You know what, bitch, I think I’m gonna let you take me out for that nice dinner.” Trixie bites his lip, hard. “And you’re gonna have to sit across the table from me all night knowing I’m just counting down the seconds til I can bring you back to my place and fucking _have you for dessert._ ”

Trixie takes it like a fucking baseball bat to the skull. K.O., girl. He comes with a gasp, fighting to keep quiet, Brian’s voice low and satisfied in his ear. 

There’s a beat of silence after. They come down, listen to each other breathe. Trixie’s brain feels syrupy, heavy. He cleans himself up with the far corner of the sheet, then flops down on his stomach. “Oh my god,” he mumbles. “I’m so fucking dead, Brian.”

Brian coos. “How’s your back?”

“Mm. No complaints. Thank you.” Trixie yanks the covers over himself, curls up. “Aren’t you tired?” 

“A little.” Trixie thinks he hears a yawn, but he can’t be sure. “I feel fucking great, though. You want me to let you go?”

“Don’t,” Trixie says immediately. Brian’s breath hitches in amusement. “Or, I mean,” Trixie says, “unless you want to. If you have to go you should go. Obviously.” 

Brian murmurs, “No, honey, I’m good. I’m here.” 

Trixie lets his eyes close. “Yeah, like, I’m not even _that_ tired, you know, but.” He’s got a knot of blanket pressed between his hands, and he squeezes it a little tighter, giving it knuckles, long fingers, thin wrists. The bed is warm at his back. He gives it a smoker’s wheeze, a heart beating against his spine. Brian breathes gently in his ear. 

“Yeah, you don’t sound tired at all,” he agrees. 

“I’m not, girl, shut up.” He curls himself up a little tighter. Everything feels cloudy and pale lilac. Brian does shut up for a minute, and then he speaks, very softly.

“Trixie.”

“Mm.” 

“Can I come to one of your gigs sometime? If it wouldn’t trip you out. I haven’t - like, I haven’t had a good reason to go out to see a show in a while, and, if it wouldn’t be weird for you…” he trails off.

Trixie’s eyes pop open one at a time, like a sunning iguana. Would it be? Does Trixie qualify as a good reason? These feel like questions he can’t answer in his current state, barely conscious and orgasm-doped. He shuts his eyes again. “Girl, it’s a free country, don’t be weird about it,” he slurs, and then he’s out.

\---

He wakes up face down in the early afternoon, his poor phone dead beside him and his headphone cord half in his open mouth. He doesn’t remember hanging up last night; doesn’t remember saying goodbye, either. It’s all fuzzy, a cozy fog of laughter and Brian’s voice knocking around in his head. He can't actually remember much, hardly anything beyond the point when he came so hard he stopped breathing for a minute. A familiar wave of sober anxiety washes through him, the amorphous fear he said or did something stupid that he can’t recall. 

But honestly, who cares? He says and does stupid things around Brian all the time, and none of the ones he can remember have scared him away yet. 

He plugs in his dead phone and staggers out of his bedroom toward the kitchen. There’s coffee there. There’s also Bob the Goddamn Drag Queen. In his hands is Trixie’s favorite mug, the one from Six Flags Magic Mountain that he found at a thrift store, emblazoned with the name of the park and STACY in huge pink letters. Bob’s sipping slowly, watching him with half-lidded eyes and a wry expression, like if the Cheshire Cat thought you were a fucking idiot. 

“You’re not Stacy,” Trixie points out. 

Bob blinks, nonplussed. “You missed a spot,” he says, drawing a line down his own cheek. Trixie’s hand goes up. Fucking glitter. “So, who were you gabbing with on the other side of my extremely thin wall all night?”

“Suicide hotline,” Trixie says immediately. He goes to the cabinet to grab a second mug. “They have a special extension for people like me, who're coping with kleptomaniac roommates.”

Bob chuckles, shaking his head. “I had no idea they provided such...comprehensive service.” He takes a pointed sip, cutting his eyes away. 

Trixie turns to the freezer for ice, and so that Bob won’t see him flush magenta. Bob asks, amused, “This is the same guy from the other week?” 

Trixie shrugs. “Who can keep track?” he says airily. 

“Right, of course.” Bob grins and puts his hands up, which Trixie recognizes as silent shorthand for _you do you, you weird bitch_. Trixie feels a rush of fondness for him, which he expresses by turning on his heel and swanning out of the room to see if his phone has turned back on yet. “Will you pour some coffee over that ice for me?” he calls over his shoulder. 

“Do it yourself,” Bob yells after him, doing it. 

His phone is just vibrating back to life. Trixie hovers by the bed as he flicks through it. Deletes some junk mail, checks Twitter. Taps over to the call history. 

He was on with Brian for over two hours. It might be coming back in pieces, but he’s certain they didn’t talk for more than an hour, and even that feels like a stretch. 

A text pops up. His phone’s still getting its shit together; it was sent hours ago, at around seven in the morning. 

_just finished the first ashtanga of the day. idk about your back but mine feels veeery loose. hope youre dreaming filthy dreams tina marie._

“Oh my god,” Trixie mutters. He can picture it, suddenly, 4K clear: Brian puttering around his place with his earbuds in, going about his pre-dawn preparations for an early morning in the studio, helping Trixie wind his night down even as his own day began. And then, just staying on the line, constant and steady, listening to Trixie fall asleep while the sun came up. 

His ribs feel tight. He can’t think about it. He texts back some total nonsense - _god you’re such a downward facing horndog_ \- and then the honey emoji. 

What he remembers, suddenly, is how close to him he’d felt: like Brian was beside him on the bed, like he could’ve whispered every word against his lips. 

But then, it kind of always feels a little like that, with him. 

He puts the phone down. He turns back to the kitchen, to where Bob is lounging, the coffee getting good and cold. Across town, Brian’s twisting his way through the afternoon, throwing sunlight wherever he goes. And Trixie’s here, telling himself and Bob and anyone else who’ll listen that it’s nothing, it’s whatever, he’s just somebody. 

(Some other version of him might even believe it. This one doesn’t at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> slightly updated fic playlist can be found here:  
> https://spoti.fi/2VMl5zQ
> 
> feedback is julia roberts to me. you know!?


End file.
